


Immortal

by Zoni



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24885763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoni/pseuds/Zoni
Summary: After leaving his master more than a century previous, Sebastian discovers Ciel Phantomhive alive and well in modern day New York City... with the mark of their contract still burning in his eye.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 20
Kudos: 118
Collections: Kuroshitsuji





	1. Beginning

Regret.

There are not many emotions that demons do not often feel. We have the same emotional range as humans, perhaps greater in many instances. But we do not throw ourselves into them at the slightest inclination. If we so wish, we may choose to avoid them, to take ourselves out of the path that would lead us to them in the first place. Humans do not possess that level of restraint. They are foolhardy creatures that live in the moment and delight in the pain it brings them once it has ended.

Of all those emotions that exist, regret is something I have never fully experienced. Avoiding such inconveniences is a simple matter, one that utilizes the most basic of intelligence. We do not allow ourselves to get attached. We do not get overly involved. Much as a human would never eat their dog, we know to keep our distance. 

In all my many years, I can count the number of such mistakes on the fingers of a single hand. The only truly remarkable part about that fact is that two of these instances have occurred within the last century and a half. And the thing I regret most is the decision I made to leave the service of Ciel Phantomhive. 

**~*~**

Shortly before his fifteenth birthday, my former young master achieved his goal. The last of the men who had tortured him, burned his home to ashes, and destroyed his family had been found at a country estate in Leicestershire. I tore the head off the last of them with my own two hands. 

With that single action, our contract had reached its conclusion. He had realized everything he had asked of me when first I was summoned. I had played the part of the dutiful butler, following the three conditions he had laid out so clearly. After more than four years of waiting, the time had come to indulge in the meal I had so patiently prepared. His soul, so perfectly flawed and tempting, was to be my reward for faithful service and unshakable devotion to him. 

And yet, as I knelt before him and saw the resignation in his eyes as he stared back at me, I came to a startling realization. I had no desire to bring about the end of his existence. I could not bring myself to devour his soul. 

I had failed to keep myself from those very emotions I had so easily avoided before. I had failed to keep my distance from him. Somewhere along the way, I had come to care very deeply for my young master. There would be no exaggeration in saying that I loved him, perhaps more even than I loved the game that we had played over these past years. This was not a new realization, but the effect it had on me at the time was startling. 

From the moment a bargain is struck, the future is clearly defined. A demon will abide by the terms of the contract, even unto the most tedious of details. But when the terms have been met and both sides have satisfied their demands, payment must be made. I had known from the moment he first gave me my name that I would take his soul. That is the final part of all contracts with those such as myself. 

Never before have I gone against the terms of a contract or simply walked away. Those words are incredibly deceptive, making it sound as though such a thing is easy to do. They do not carry the weight that comes with going against one's very nature or the consequences thereof. But in that moment, I had no other choice to make. His existence meant more to me than my own selfish ideals.

With that knowledge, my path was clear. Though I would not take his soul, I also could not remain in his service. His life, so tainted by the darkness around him, would only be further corrupted by my presence. But I would not leave him unprotected. In that aspect, no forethought was needed. When I had gone, the other servants would watch over him.

A letter was drafted to Tanaka containing some flimsy excuse for my departure. I no longer remember the exact words I chose to say why I had left my charge. Within the paragraphs, I also included the directions I felt would be needed, guidance for the household staff that I needed to provide even if it might not be heeded. Though I could not watch over him, my young master would be safe. He would be alive.

When at last the rest of the household was asleep, I went to his room and stayed there for a long while. More than an hour was spent watching as he slept. When I had waited as long as I dared, I leaned close and smelled his hair. I pressed a kiss to his forehead. With that final gesture, I left. 

That night, that moment, is what I regret. Leaving him was by far the most difficult thing I have ever done. For someone who has seen as many centuries as I, that is no small admission. 

Our contract, however, remained intact. Even my blatant violation of the terms we had agreed upon was not enough to destroy something so ancient. The contract was binding and eternal, and so were the signs of it. The mark of it still stains the back of my left hand. 

While I could not destroy the contract itself, I could sever some of the connections that our agreement had created. The piece of our bond that kept me ever aware of his presence, that let me hear his voice when he called for me no matter where I might be, was severed. A part of me could not bear the thought of hearing him call my name when he woke, as I knew he would, to find me gone. This last token of my selfishness was all that I could manage. This is what I thought was best. As I left the manor house for the final time, I tried to forget the remarkable young earl I once served.

Only within the past year, since my new master and I reached a bargain, have I tried to learn what became of Ciel Phantomhive. With the amount of time that had passed, I did not expect the pain I felt when I learned of his death. It is not that I had deluded myself into thinking he would somehow be alive, mind you, but I also had not expected the reality that I discovered. He had died just over a year after I left his side. 

Even had I remained, there would have been nothing in my power that I could have done to save him from his silent assassin: pneumonia. Humans are so fragile.

**~*~**

Memories of that distant past are a fine escape for my present reality. Eleven months ago, I was summoned accidentally by a man possessed of desperation. Mugged by someone carrying a large firearm and not much sense, John Anderson had been dying in a pile of rotting food and refuse. He is my master now. At first, I was intrigued by his contradictory desires for both class and filth. Time has revealed him for what he is: a disgusting creature unworthy of being called a man. 

There are many foolish things people demand in their bargains with me. You might guess at some of them easily: power, sex, popularity. But of all the many demands that would cause someone to give up their soul, the most futile is money. That is John Anderson's idea of happiness. His dying wish was not to live or for the safety of a loved one. He did not even care if his assailant were ever found. He only asked for one thing: a fortune beyond his imagining. And what a small imagination it is. I have wondered more than once if he even comprehends the true nature of our contract or if he has convinced himself that I too may be bought.

Every aspect of the man's life shows the same callously careless approach. In his former occupation, he was an investment banker whose funds were never his own. Now, he frequently spends more than he makes through his petty scams and social thievery. I am uncertain whether that is stupidity at work or some ingenious attempt to avoid fulfilling the agreement between us. 

His fortunes are spent on carnal delights. Many times, this constitutes the pleasures of the flesh, but he is not above sampling more chemically based entertainments. Occasionally, I too am humiliated for his personal amusement. I detest him.

But for all my many complaints about my master, there is one oversight I am glad for. While many would give me a name they find attractive or appropriate, Mr. Anderson did not care about such insignificant details as to what I might be or what name I might be called. And so, I remain Sebastian Michaelis. 

To add to this, my time with him is often brief. My presence is only required once a day and rarely beyond that. When he has need of me, he insists on using a cellular phone purchased for that purpose. Beyond that, I am expected to remain out of sight and out of mind. To that end, he has also provided me with a small apartment intended as my storage. This suits my tastes, as I do not wish to interact with him any more than is necessary. 

For my master, it is the ideal situation. For myself, I believe his contract may soon end abruptly. After all, when our bargain was struck and the contract was signed, he failed to specify what level of wealth would satisfy his demands.

**~*~**

As I walk down the street on my single daily errand, I am struck by how much the world has changed around me in the past one hundred and twenty-two years. At the same time, many things are just as they were in London a century past. The carriages have been replaced with taxicabs, the newspaper boys with sidewalk vendors, but cities remain as they always have been. 

My journey this morning takes me into an unfamiliar section of the city. As part of my duties to Mr. Anderson, I am to bring him coffee and pastries from his favorite bakery each morning. He does not believe that I can create them myself, or that I even have any concept of what food might be. His tastes are also quite particular. This morning, his preferred bakery was closed, something even I cannot circumvent. I am risking his fury by patronizing another bakery.

This particular venue has far more pastel decorations than should be necessary, the vast majority of which are thrust in my face as I walk through the double doors and join the queue of other customers. More than a dozen people stand between myself and the register. My torture will be drawn out this morning, it would seem.

While I had developed something of an affinity for the creation of pastries and baked goods while serving at the Phantomhive manor, I have no appreciation for the modern invention of the coffee shop. The smell of artificial vanilla and cheap, mass-produced cinnamon are irritating to the senses. They lack the refinement of any truly enjoyable creation. They are just as shallow as the customers who buy them. 

But those shallow creatures are still my amusement as I wait in line, taking in the sights and sounds of the people around me. I find myself wondering what punishment I will endure for the brand substitution of this morning's breakfast as I watch the punk rocker in front of me and the elderly couple seated in the corner. No amount of distraction can take away from the sound I hear at the edge of my awareness.

A voice. Small, yet deep at the same time. The source of it is coming from the customer standing at the counter and placing their order. Something about the cadence of the words and the determination of the tone I can hear tug at my mind. The voice sounds familiar. There is an instant where I wonder why, but then I place it. The accent is not as thick as I remember, but the commanding tone that knows exactly what it wants is unmistakable. The voice isn't similar. It's the same. I have not heard that voice in more than a century. That is a coincidence above all coincidences in this world where everyone is an individual.

As these thoughts fly through my mind, the customer breaks away from the counter and receives their order. They turn to make their way to the exit and the entire world stands still around me. There, walking towards the doors, is Ciel Phantomhive. Small, regal, proud. He looks exactly the same as he did on the day that I left... right down to the black silk patch covering his right eye.


	2. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian has an opportunity to speak with the master he once served. Surprising information is nothing to the reactions his reasons for leaving bring.

While the clothing is different than what he once wore, I have never been as certain of anything as I am that the person who has just walked past me is Ciel Phantomhive. This is not a passing resemblance or a flight of fancy. There is no one else who could be mistaken for him. Impossible. Ridiculous. And yet, true.

Half a second after he leaves the shop, I am driven to act. Turning on my heels, I step out of line and follow him into the morning. The jingle of shop bells on the door follows me onto the sidewalk outside. I search the light foot traffic in every direction to find him once more. He is easy to spot; small but moving with unmistakable purpose. He makes his way briskly down the street as though it is something he has done a hundred times before. The distance between us is closing, but I will not be able to reach him easily without running. I don’t know what I will do once I reach him. The only thing I know is that I must.

He turns abruptly down an alley almost as though he knows he is being followed. The city swallows him whole. By the time I reach the same corner, he has nearly vanished down the other end, hidden in the shadows that cover the dumpsters lining either side of the area. There is no one else there, only the sound of an engine somewhere at the other end of the passageway and the ambient noise of urban life.

"Please wait!" I call out.

There is no expectation that he will stop. Considering the roughness of the neighborhood and the modern attitude towards interacting with strangers in public places, no ordinary person would. Even so, his steps slow. Once. Twice. At the third pace, he turns slowly to look behind himself.

The color drains from his skin as he takes in the sight of me. Words do not exist to accurately describe the expression on his face. Shock, perhaps, but the sort of shock that comes with facing a reality you had convinced yourself could never possibly happen. He lets out a breath and seems unable to find another.

"Sebastian."

My name isn't truly audible. It's nothing more than the shape formed by his lips in reaction to my presence. Any doubts that might have lingered about the identity of the person in the coffee shop are erased. The person in front of me is undeniably my former master. Ciel Phantomhive is alive and well in this modern world far removed from that which he so deftly navigated with my presence at his side.

But how?

Ciel Phantomhive is dead. I know that fact in the same way that I know my own nature. When I had given in to my sentimentality and tried to discover what had become of him after my departure, that fact stood out to me above all others. He was dead at sixteen. And yet, here he is standing in front of me.

For the first time in more than a hundred years, I say the words, "Young master."

Disbelief. Joy. A frustrating lack of understanding. All these things register, but they are nothing to the scent of both fear and anger that hangs in the air. While I am surprised beyond anything I have felt before, my reaction is nothing to his. His tremors are visible even from this distance.

"So," he says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out roughly, steadying himself. The coffee cup in one hand is spilling its contents to the ground, but he doesn't seem to notice. "You've finally come to collect."

The irrational desire to laugh seizes me and is gone just as quickly. With all the time that has passed, his first thought is of our unfinished business. Had I ever conceived of a situation such as this, I would have hoped for something more from him. He should have known that I would have taken his soul had I wanted to do so. At least, some part of me hoped that realization would find him once I had left. That hope was clearly in vain.

"You think I am here for your soul?"

The look on his face as he hears the words tells me that my question is unexpected. That perhaps he had some retort to whatever response he might have expected. Perhaps he had even rehearsed this scenario, anticipating a reality I could never have foreseen. There is a hesitation in his eyes that is strikingly familiar.

"Why else would you be here?" There. That is my young master. Demanding answers, glaring at me as though he is twice his height.

But there is no answer I can give. Instead, all I can respond with is a question. "How is it that you are still alive?"

"You didn't kill me." The words are spat out in an instant, an automatic reaction. They don't answer the question. "You've come a century too late for that."

During that last night at the Phantomhive manor, I knew the consequences of my choices. In the very moment that the decision was made, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would never again speak with my young master. I would never hear his voice, respond to his commands, or even allow myself to wonder about his care and keeping. I would never again allow myself to get involved. Drinking in the sight of him now, everything I am thinking goes directly against all of that.

All I can tell him is, "I have no desire to harm you, young master."

The purr of the engine grows louder as a sleek black limousine pulls up behind him in the alley running perpendicular to the one in which we stand. His uncovered eye flicks back towards the vehicle uneasily, as though afraid I might strike if he dares to turn his back on me. When I do not, he turns enough to place one hand on the nearest door handle. "I'm leaving."

The door opens with a click and I am confronted with a decision. Regardless of my previous choices, I face an unexpected opportunity. However, this opportunity runs directly in opposition to the determinations I once made. Those decisions were based on sound principles, but they clearly did not have the desired effect. But if I so choose, I can let him vanish into that car. I can allow him to drive away, keeping the promise I once made to myself not to interfere with his life any longer.

There is no choice to be made.

"Wait a moment," I call to him once more as he begins to step into the limousine.

His hand tightens on the door, but he pauses long enough to meet my eyes. His features are no longer stricken as though I am Death itself, not that the reapers we have known would merit such a response. The expression that has taken its place defies my understanding, hovering somewhere between uncertainty and a deep resignation. The expression vanishes as soon as I notice it, his face arranging itself into a blank slate. "If you're not here for my soul, we don't have any business to conclude, demon."

He is correct. I know that much, but I cannot simply let him vanish into the limousine and drive away. In a now unfamiliar gesture, I place my hand over my heart and bow to him as I have not done in more than a century. "As your former servant, I would like to request a chance to speak with my master."

The formality of the words feels out of place against the background of traffic in the distance. Several streets away, there is a dog barking and the sound of a trash truck backing up to a dumpster. As I wait for a response, it feels as though I am at odds with the reality around me. My choice was made when I left the Phantomhive manor. Have I not disregarded his orders since that very night? And yet, here I am, ready and willing to beg for this human boy to grant me a single favor. Despite the negligence I have shown him, I will follow whatever decision he makes now.

His gaze burns through me as I wait for him to act. He is in no hurry to decide, it would seem. As the time ticks by uncounted, I begin to wonder if he might simply ignore my request and leave without so much as another word.

Finally, however, he speaks.

"Fine," comes the unhappy agreement. "But I have to leave now. When?"

"Would tonight be a possibility?" My schedule has never been particularly all-consuming, especially with the light demands on my time imposed by John Anderson. My mornings may belong to his petty errands, but my evenings are often my own. "Is there somewhere you would feel comfortable meeting, or would you like me to come to you?"

"I'll come to you," he tells me. It is not a question.

Producing a small pad of paper from one of my pockets along with a pen, I jot down the address of my apartment for him. Crossing the distance between us, I fold the paper smoothly and present it to him. In an instant, it is snatched out of my gloves by small fingers that are careful not to touch anything but the paper itself.

With one last burning look, Ciel Phantomhive vanishes into the limousine. The soft whine of the engine is the only warning I receive as it pulls away, leaving me to stand in the empty alley and wonder what just occurred.

**~*~**

John Anderson is not an imposing man. He is short and soft, with wide, flat features that cause him to resemble a toad. His watery eyes glare at me over thickly rimmed glasses as I stand in his dining room, prepared to give his daily demands along with the pastries. His gaze switches from me to the pink bags and coffee cups from the bakery.

"You're late."

"I am sorry, master," I tell him, offering an inclination of my head. "There was quite a wait at the bakery."

"Quite a wait?" he yells, spitting as he talks. The fleshiness of his face turns a shade of maroon as he lets his irritation take over. "There are no excuses! You should have been there earlier if there was a wait. And what the hell are these? These aren't from my bakery."

Without waiting for a response, Mr. Anderson sweeps an arm across the table, knocking the goods to the floor. The contents of the cups spill out across the marble, coffee soaking into the weave of the rug underneath the dining table. I stand there passively and let him scream.

"This isn't what I asked for! You're completely incompetent. I don't even know why I bother, you piece of shit. Why the fuck didn't you bring me the usual?"

"Most unfortunately, your preferred bakery is closed temporarily due to a problem with the health department," I inform him.

"There are no excuses! You, of all people... fuck that, you're not a person," he barks, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lights it and takes a drag. "For something like you, that shouldn't be a problem. I don't know why I keep you around."

"While I may be a demon, there are some things which even I cannot change."

Words cannot describe the loathing I feel at simply having to stand in John Anderson's presence. There are few who draw my ire in the way that he does, and yet the two of us are bound together in a contract. While he signed the contract and acknowledged the terms of our agreement, these daily interactions are proof that he has no earthly concept what they meant. The small vein pulsing in his forehead drives the temptation to simply end the contract here and now. Is he even worth devouring? Demons do not get ill, but I suspect that he still might manage to give me food poisoning.

Scratching at the end of his cigarette like an itch, he asks, "Do you have it?"

"Of course," I respond. Pulling a sheet of paper from the pocket of my slacks, I had it to him and step away. Along with the customary pastries and coffee, I provide him with another type of assistance each morning. The list I give him consists of favorable trades for the stock market, along with business dealings which would be beneficial to him. These are the keys to his desired wealth, though it would have been much simpler to arrange some sort of inheritance or lottery win for him. He has expressed the need to feel as though he is earning the money even though he has never earned so much as a favorable opinion. To that end, he has not lost money on the stock market since my arrival even when making abysmally poor decisions on his own.

Mr. Anderson fists the paper in his sausage-like fingers and reviews my suggestions. "Fine. Get out of my apartment. Keep your phone on."

"As you wish," I tell him, offering another short nod as I turn to leave. He always instructs me to keep the cellular phone turned on but rarely has he made use of it. He is aware that he could call me through the contract if he so wished it. Thankfully, he has not felt the need.

**~*~**

There are forty-seven city blocks between Mr. Anderson's apartment and my own. My current master made a point of renting a unit as far from his own as he considered practical in which to keep me. While I could take a cab and save myself the time or even travel faster by my own natural abilities, I sometimes find the walk pleasing. Today qualifies. The air is crisp and clear, beautiful even for this time of year. The time between places will let me process the events of the day that still weigh heavily on my mind.

Few things escape the understanding of demons. Chief among those that do are purely human complaints, such as illnesses and the tediousness of interpersonal social relationships. But when we speak of any matter concerning our contracts, those we have contracted with, and the role we play in their deaths, the facts are plain enough.

The essence of many things supernatural is quite ordinary: mortality. Humans are mortal by definition. They live short lives, rarely more than one hundred and twenty years in the extreme. They age. They become ill. They die. And yet, this morning, I was confronted with reality that Ciel Phantomhive has not died. More than that, he has not visibly aged even a single day since I last set eyes on him. This is something beyond my comprehension.

Arriving at my apartment, I let myself into the building and traverse the six floors up to my front door. Once inside, I pull off the thin cotton gloves I still wear, letting them fall to the floor almost without notice. The black of the contract seal stands out in clear contrast to the paleness of my skin. While many of the features are the same, the details have changed from when I was only contracted to Ciel Phantomhive. Since each contract shows up on the same hand and in the same space, there have been changes to the design. John Anderson has added new striations, new lettering, and new markings to create an intricate pattern that did not exist before.

When I left my former young master, I told myself that I would never see him again. The decision was made for the betterment of both his life and my own. I will not claim that there would be no benefit for me, if only in that I might let myself try to return to something of a more demonic nature in that my distractions would not include things such as tea service and baked goods. My decisions when made are final. I cannot be swayed. That is why I took my time on that last evening, allowing myself a few precious moments to remember him as he was. After all, I knew that he would age. He would die.

And yet, he did not.

This situation now is entirely unprecedented. Even more so now that he has agreed to meet with me, to speak with me. What do you say to the master you abandoned, to the soul that you spared? The answers to that question escape me entirely, but I need to know why he has not aged. I need to know why everything that I found told me that he was dead when he is anything but that. I cannot lie to myself, however. The mystery bothers me greatly, yes, but that is not the real reason that I wanted to speak with him. I have missed his presence.

For the moment, the only answers to my questions must come from the one resource I possess. Walking through my apartment, I take a seat in front of the computer that resides on a desk in my bedroom. Opening an internet browser, I begin my search for information. While some time has passed since I last looked into what had become of my young master, the facts I discovered previously are plain enough. Earl Ciel Phantomhive died of pneumonia in 1891. Now I am driven to wonder what other inaccuracies might exist in the records I have found.

Mentions of his name online are few and far between. He exists only as a minor player in British history, remarkable for being a child business owner and for his place within British nobility. The most I can find are references to the establishment and progression of the Funtom Company, his most public endeavor. One website even has a photograph of him with all the household servants, myself included. The picture was taken at his fiancée’s insistence. How very nostalgic, though I do not care to have a photograph like that of myself online. Following the website's lead, however, I go to the main website of the Funtom Company.

Even after my young master's supposed demise, the Funtom Company did not decline in sales or expansion. To the contrary, they are now the third largest children's toy company in the world. Perhaps common sense should have driven me to wonder about that level of success. After all, my young master was the reason that the company thrived. If my young master is still alive, it is possible he still has a hand in the business.

A history page for the company makes only a passing mention of my young master. Instead, it cites his father, Vincent Phantomhive, as the founder of the company. A list of previous company presidents indicates that Tanaka oversaw the business from 1891 until his death in 1904. A sensible choice. I greatly respected the man for his capabilities with business, people, and matters of safety. That is why I entrusted my young master to his care when I had gone.

After Tanaka's death, however, the trail seems to run cold. There is no additional information to be gleaned aside from the fact that the presidency has changed hands every three or four years like clockwork since his passing. Currently, all business operations are being overseen by one Frederick Randall. There is no photo provided, and all information about the company and its staff is vague at best.

Without going to the company directly, this website is the best source of information. While my curiosity has not been appeased, all I can do now is wait. Perhaps my young master will be able to answer the question as to how it is that he is alive and well at the age of 145.

**~*~**

Hours have passed and the day has started to turn into evening. The setting sun fills my apartment with an orange light as I read through one of the volumes of classic literature that can be found in my apartment. Reading is not my typical choice of pastime, but it suits my tastes for today. While my schedule is rarely filled with duties for Mr. Anderson, I somehow feel ill-equipped to deal with the number of empty hours that make up the day.

Precisely at eight o'clock, there is a knock at my door. The doorbell is ignored completely. Setting the book on the coffee table next to my cellular phone, I make my way to the front door and pull it open without bothering to check the peephole. Standing in front of me is Ciel Phantomhive.

Much like this morning, the sight of him is enough to make me feel as though the pillars of the earth have suddenly begun to give way to weakness. The effect does not seem to be mutual. He appears perfectly composed, wearing an expensive navy-blue sweater and a pair of khakis that manage to look both casual and composed. The patch covering his right eye is made of plain charcoal grey silk; understated, the fabric just the right shade to blend in with his hair. The look on his face is wary, but hardly that of someone looking at the face of someone they had assumed dead.

"Please come in," I tell him, sweeping my arm towards the interior of the apartment. There is a hesitation from him as he looks inside. Is he expecting to see coffins and a torture chamber, perhaps? He should know better. But then again, I can still remember our conversation this morning. "If I wished to harm you, I would have already done so."

Another moment of hesitation. Then, he steps into the apartment with the same command of presence that I would expect from him.

Immediately inside the door sits my living room, sparsely decorated with the furnishings provided by the management company that owns the property. A couch and two chairs provide seating around the coffee table, which is itself placed upon a cheap imitation of a Persian rug. As I typically endeavor to spend as little time as possible in the apartment, I have not bothered to replace any of the furniture or decorations. Moving towards the couch, I take a seat at the far-left side in the hopes that my former young master might do the same. He does so, claiming the chair that is both furthest from myself and closest to the front door. With that single action, I find myself in an impossible situation.

Memories are important for demons in a way that will never be true for humans. Among mine stands out the self-education I felt necessary when I first undertook the contract with the young Earl Phantomhive and realized that my knowledge in human traditions, behavior, and expectations was lacking. At the time, there were several popular guides to etiquette that were commonly read by housewives, heads of staff, and anyone who might have the need to learn proper behavior. I still remember purchasing a copy of The Handbook of Etiquette, already somewhat outdated in the late 1880s, in the hopes of improving my skills.

With all of the advice on when to serve champagne and how introductions must be made in a ballroom, I cannot remember a single paragraph on the subject of what one should do when faced with the opportunity to speak to a master they had willfully walked away from in order to save their life. Perhaps I should offer him tea.

Thoughts of offering refreshment or what to say are erased as he asks, "So why did you find me now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why have you waited until now?" he asks. "Why are we sitting here and talking like this?"

It would seem as though I have not been the only one who has spent the day thinking about this conversation. Even so, it doesn't take a demon to realize that there is more to his questions than meet the eye. When I found him this morning, it was clear that he thought I had come for his soul. Is it possible that he thought I had left him with the intention of returning?

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, the answer is obvious. All humans are flawed creatures. In the case of my former young master, his emotional fortitude and mental strength were among his highest assets in the time I knew him. So too was the trust he put in our agreement. Among the tenets of our contract were the simple obligations that I could never leave or betray him. The truth of the matter is that I have done both, but perhaps he believes that I might try to keep my word in some twisted manner with my sudden reappearance. Flights of fancy such as that are matters for children. Even when our contract was freshly signed, I knew the truth: Ciel Phantomhive has never been someone that one might accurately call a child.

"I'm afraid that I do not understand," I tell him.

"You've been gone for more than a century, Sebastian. Don't pretend that you don't know what or why I'm asking," he tells me, the words as much of a command as any order he has ever given. There is a deep breath as he looks at me directly. "Is that even your name anymore, demon?"

"I am still Sebastian Michaelis," I answer quietly, "but I truly do not know what you are asking."

He huffs, unhappy with my reply. "Why did you ask to see me? You could have found me any time you wanted to." He pauses. The direct gaze he had on me fades as he looks away. "I don't understand why you left in the first place."

Try as I might, I have not been able to keep myself from wondering what had become of him since the very night I left. While restraint may have kept me from finding out until recent years, I had never imagined that the reasons behind my departure might seem as mysterious to him as they were. I also had not imagined that he would be left with more than a lifetime to ponder the situation, as seems to be the case.

This lack of forethought is my fault. The consequences would not have changed, even had he not lived to the present day. I confess that I had not stopped to consider the parallels my departure might have to other situations he had lived through even in the short time I had known him. Perhaps I should have. He led a life of consistent inconsistency; people came and went, those he cared about died. He had only two things he could rely upon: myself, and the knowledge that I would remain when all others failed him.

Would it matter that my decision was made out of a desire for his safety? I don't need to ask the question to know the answer.

Addressing him directly, I say, "I had no conscious intention of returning to you."

He lets out a breath. I can hear him shaking in the sound.

"In truth, I had thought never to seek you out again after my departure," I continue, attempting to give more of whatever it is that he is seeking. "When I saw you this morning in the coffee shop, I was understandably surprised. As for why I asked to speak with you, I have many reasons to do so."

Sitting up straighter in the chair, my former young master takes in the words quietly. Every inch of him is tense.

"You were surprised," he says after a moment.

"Yes."

He sits forward slightly, frowning so hard that I fear it might leave a wrinkle. “You didn't know, did you? That I was still like this."

"No," I respond honestly. "I did not. I was under the impression that you had died some time ago. You ask why I wished to speak with you. In part, I hoped you might be able to tell me how this is possible."

At that, he laughs. The sound is dry and mirthless. "A demon asking a human for information! Really, Sebastian, I would have expected better from you."

Hearing him call my name stirs something in me that had fallen asleep years ago. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed the sound, even if the name he gave me was spoken in anger.

When I don't respond, he shrugs and sits back slightly once more. "I've had so much time to wonder about all of this. And here I've looked over my shoulder for years, wondering when you would come and collect your dues. Wasn't that the entire point of our contract, so that you could devour my soul?"

"As you have already been told," I tell him, "I have no intention of carrying through with that."

I expect him to ask why, or to demand once more that I explain why I asked him to speak with me. Instead, he shrugs as he looks around my apartment and takes in the shabby decor and generic color scheme.

"The contract might be why I'm like this, I guess. I don't know." His gaze comes back to rest on me. "You would know better than I on that front. I figured you _did_ know, or maybe that you'd done it on purpose. That when you got hungry enough, you'd come back. I kind of figured this was like Tupperware for souls."

There is a smile on his lips that suggests he's trying to make an ironic joke. I don't find it amusing. Despite my request for a chance to speak with him, I do not have the words to respond to the things he has felt the need to say. He isn't really asking a question. Instead, he's reaffirming the same thing I have already deduced: neither of us knows what happened or why he appears to be frozen in time.

Words aren't needed as he slowly reaches up and unties the string that holds his eye patch in place. The fabric falls loosely into his hand as he meets my gaze with both eyes. There is something surreal about seeing the clear lines of our contract mark burning in his right eye without being able to feel him also reaching out to me through the connection we once had. Our ties have been long severed, and yet I can almost imagine feeling that pulse of emotion flow through me as it had when he would call for me so many years ago.

"Why did you put this here, Sebastian?" he asks. "Wasn't it so you could track me down no matter what happened, no matter where I went? So that you could find me if _I_ ran? We completed our agreement years ago. You just need to finish it."

His words cut into me like knives. They are an accusation of sins against him. Of mistakes made by someone who never made mistakes without purpose. Is it possible that he is right? Did my failure to complete our contract somehow keep him from aging and dying as a human should? I honestly do not know. While I have entered many contracts throughout my long existence, most of my masters have not lived to see the morning after our agreement was fulfilled. To think that my young master has been kept in a false life for more than a century due to my decision is something beyond my scope of experience.

Some humans dream of immortality, but the words coming from his lips speak a different story. Can it be that he wishes I would have taken his soul? Death for those outside of a contract is a mystery even for myself. However, to have your soul eaten by a demon is more than death. That is a complete and final end. Everything that you are and have ever been ceases to exist. There is no romantic final chapter where you somehow become part of the demon's consciousness or continue to live inside of them. You simply stop, and the universe continues as though you had never existed to begin with.

I have met some humans who truly wish for that escape. They consider it a peaceful reprieve, somehow mistaking nonexistence for rest. At the moment Ciel Phantomhive was presented to me, bloodied and broken on an altar of lies, his soul had been tempting to the point where I had entered into a contract with him to guarantee him that very thing. To imagine him now as one of those pitiful creatures who wishes nothing more than to stop being is impossible even for one such as myself.

"I will not take your soul," I tell him firmly. "As I have already told you, you have nothing to fear from me regardless of our previous arrangement."

"Why?" He gets to his feet, staring at me directly. He is as close to shouting as I have ever heard him during a conversation. "Why, Sebastian? Why am I here? Why did you leave?"

Questions without answers hang in the air as he begins to pace around the room. These are more complex matters than he realizes. Answers to some have already been given, but I do not like seeing him this uneasy. What can I do to calm him down?

Getting to my feet, I offer what seems the obvious solution. "Let me get you something to drink, young master."

"Don't call me that!" He rounds on me just as I reach the barrier between my living area and the dining room. For being nearly a foot and a half shorter than I am, he manages to be a rather imposing presence as he glares up at me intently. "You left. You never came back. You never listened when I called for you. Don't pretend that I am your master when you clearly do not think so. _Why_ , Sebastian? Tell me why you left."

At this precise moment, the most nonsensical sensation seizes me. My former young master is yelling at me and I could not be happier at the fact. Never had I expected to find him alive. I also had not expected to be so pleased by that fact. And yet, here he is, standing in front of me and berating me for my failings and it is the most delightful thing I have experienced in years simply because he is alive. Somehow, I had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be in his presence. With all the time that has passed, he is still the same person I knew before. That fact makes me glad beyond reason.

At the same time, the accusations he is making are having their desired effect. Shame is something I have rarely experienced and yet it is the only appropriate response. When I made the decision to depart the Phantomhive manor house and leave behind all my many obligations, I had imagined that it would have a positive effect on both my former charge and his household at large. While I knew that he would be upset when he discovered my absence, I had imagined that he would forget me in time. Humans are easily distracted, after all. Never had I expected it to weigh on him for years. Certainly not for more than a century.

Without even asking, I can see all the miscalculations I have made. But I could not have predicted what would happen in the wake of my decision. And yet, he is not asking for apologies. He is asking for an explanation.

Meeting his eyes, I answer as plainly as I am able. "I left because I no longer desired to bring an end to your life. I am sorry if that displeases you."

"If it displeases me?" he asks incredulously. One of his hands is fisted in my shirt, gripping the fabric to keep me from moving away as he tells me what is on his mind. "My life was... _is_... inconsequential. My entire existence was forfeit the moment my revenge was complete. No, before that. The moment you and I agreed to the terms of the contract. I finished my half of that. Taking my soul was your part. I never wanted to live this way for this long. Tell me _why_ , Sebastian!"

The mask of complacency that I keep in place is slipping as I find myself smiling. Amazing. More than one hundred and thirty years have passed since the night that I left, and yet it seems as though no time has passed at all. Nothing has changed even when the entire world has changed around us. To think that one small human has had this much of an effect on me is remarkable. I do not mind. I have missed this. This anger, this defiance. This is why I came to care for him the way that I did.

I have already broken our covenant and soiled our agreement. Telling him the truth cannot make things so much worse than they current are. Unable to resist the temptation, I reach up to brush several strands of his slate hair out of his eyes. The mark of our agreement burns brightly as he looks back at me, waiting for an explanation.

"The reason that I left is because I had come to care for you more than a demon, or a butler, ever should, my lord."

He stares at me for a long moment as his mind processes what I have just told him. There is a look of understanding that sinks in as his eyes glance towards the hand that I had run through his hair. In an instant, all the anger that had consumed him vanishes. He takes a step back, raises a hand and slaps me. The sting of it is nothing more than I deserve. Even so, the strike is weak. His hand falls to my chest as he hits me once more, pounding his fist against my shirt. He is yelling now. Insults, curses. The phrases are barely coherent as he continues his tantrum.

With every new punch, the strength of his protests weakens. The complaints that tumble from his lips become garbled nonsense as he collapses against me, still muttering under his breath as he leans into me. The scent of salt hangs in the air even as I feel his hands clenching my polo.

Quietly, I ask, "Young master, are you crying?"

"No!" The word is much clearer than some of his mumbled insults from a moment before, even if it is partially obscured by my clothing. He does not tell me off for using his old title. The desire I felt earlier to make the situation better returns, but there are no options available to me. Comfort and affection have never been my specialty. When combined with the information I have just conveyed to him, I am certain they would only make the situation worse.

"I am sorry that I caused you pain." An honest statement, and the only comfort I can rightfully offer.

There is an immediate response: "Idiot!"

He isn't crying anymore. Pulling back slowly, he moves so that his forehead rests against my chest, face no longer buried in my shirt. Silence. This is the response I get for answering his question. My emotions are as inappropriate now as they were when I was in his service. I should expect nothing less. When the response does come, it isn't what I expect.

"That isn't enough."

I'm not certain I heard the words correctly. "I'm sorry?"

"That isn't a good enough reason to leave," he tells me. He pulls away completely now, pulling his fingers away from my shirt in the same way that one might try to remove a splinter. He takes a full step back, putting distance between us. Whatever it is that I'm expecting to see in his eyes, it isn't there. He is looking back at me with an unreadable expression, made all the more inscrutable by the slightly irritated skin around his eyes left over from crying.

Before I can offer an appropriate response, he sighs and glances at the front door. "It's late. I need to leave. I was only supposed to be here for a few minutes, anyway."

So, this is the response he gives. Our conversation, or whatever this might be, has ended. His own decision is to depart, as well.

"Sebastian." My name, spoken again with surprising strength. My eyes turn from my front door back to meet his own once more. He has taken a step forward, closing the distance between us once again. As I watch, he slides a hand into his pocket and produces a crisp, white business card. "If you ever regret leaving my service, call that number."

His fingers linger on the card as I take it from him. Without another word, he turns and vanishes out the front door of my apartment.

The business card is made of expensive cardstock, though the design is plain. There are no logos or names anywhere on it. The only text consists of a phone number printed on one side in a simple, professional font. This tribute to the strange fixation humans have with their phones only serves to highlight the strangeness of the encounter I have just had.

My young master indicated that I should call the number if I ever regretted leaving his service. That is a simple decision to make. After all, I have regretted my decision to leave since the very moment I made it. But simple choices often happen in complicated situations.

The small black cell phone on the coffee table buzzes, dancing across the wood accompanied by the electronic sound of the ringtone. John Anderson is calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been just as excited about Immortal as I am! Your feedback keeps me going every step of the way.
> 
> I have to confess that when I read through the original version of Immortal, I got a bit skeeved out by part of this chapter (and the following chapter, which will be up likely next weekend) so I made a couple of changes. Hopefully, Immortal will only be better for those changes. Sebastian being a creeper is one thing. When Ciel gets creepy, that's where I start feeling my skin crawl a bit, so I changed his interactions with Sebastian a bit. 
> 
> Also as a full and well-deserved disclaimer, I should note that one of the changes I've made in this version of Immortal is a minor change to Ciel's age. He was originally at the canonical 14, and I opted to edge him up to 15 at the time of Sebby's departure, with a legal death age of 16 in this. I freely admit that the math and years are therefore wonky as hell since I am both bad at math and dyscalculic. And also because the math in the original was also apparently wrong. So wherever numbers are involved, please ignore them entirely.


	3. Conversations

The sky outside is finally turning black as I walk down the sidewalk towards John Anderson's apartment. My master called seven minutes ago and requested my presence in his home immediately. Once again, he has decided to entertain guests. While he did not explicitly indicate as much, I take it that I am to be part of the entertainment. As he has requested, I have changed into more colorful clothing than I typically wear. He detests my preference for black and white suit ensembles. Between my current and former masters, I have not had a day this busy in nearly a year.

Even as I may my way towards Mr. Anderson's apartment, my former master is foremost in my thoughts. He was standing in front of me only a few moments ago, something I had once thought impossible. Whatever I may be asked to do tonight, I hope that thoughts of him will distract me. In the morning, perhaps, I will call the number he gave me. There are complications that make his request difficult to accommodate, but complications do not change the fact that I have already made my decision. The only thing I wish is to serve him once more. 

Being able to stand in his presence even for the few short moments that he remained in my apartment, I was reminded of how very much I genuinely enjoyed being his butler. I am quite used to playing different roles, taking on a new life for each master I have served. Very rarely do I find myself taking enjoyment in the duties I perform for them. While I was in his service, I truly became a butler befitting the Phantomhive family. At some point, it had ceased to simply be an act. No matter the modern views of those in service to the great houses, I must admit that that sort of existence is not a poor one. 

The aforementioned complications are easy to define. They exist primarily in the form of the creature whose home I am swiftly walking towards. John Anderson. While my desire to return to my young master's side is of the utmost importance, I am conflicted by the idea of serving him while still bound to Anderson. Though difficult to explain, I feel as though it would be disrespectful to my young master if I could not give him my full attention at any time that he might require it. Serving both of them at once is an unsavory prospect. Inappropriate. Demons do not form relationships in the same ways that humans do. Therefore, I cannot say for certain, but I believe that I am beginning to understand the concept of infidelity. Perhaps it is truly impossible to serve two masters.

Even were I to return to the service of Ciel Phantomhive, the modern world is a grand departure from that of our former life. His lifestyle at the present moment is a mystery, as are the experiences he must have gone through during the time we were parted. The lifestyle of the nobility of Britain is dead. In its place, there exists a less elegant world of businesses, scandals, celebrities, and false fortunes. That does not matter to me. I am more concerned with the changes between my young master and myself. 

After more than a century and a quarter, is it truly possible to return to the master I abandoned? Trust would be a fragile thing for an exceedingly long while with him, though the definition of trust between us has never met the standards that others might hold it to. My young master has always been highly intelligent, but never trusting. 

More surprising than his offer is the fact that he did not leave after my revelation to him. My true reasons for leaving where also what I assumed would be motivation for him to do the same. Even though he knows that I cared, and still care, for him more than I should, he has asked me to call him. He wishes for me to return to him. Perhaps I have been the foolish one in this case. His reaction to my confession and the request that followed tell me more than he likely ever will. Perhaps I was not the only one with such inclinations.

Even before I left his side, I knew that he was attracted to me. Part of a demon's deceit is their charm and appeal. We are attractive, seductive, and enticing. I am quite used to dealing with the reactions from other people. However, it was unacceptable for my young master to feel that way about myself for any number of reasons. Social standards, his fiancée, and my desire for him to live a full and normal life were some of the many reasons I chose not to act on that attraction. 

He was young. At that age, developing feelings for someone close to him was natural. I was not surprised to find myself the target of such emotions, but the fleeting inclinations of human teenagers are less predictable than the weather. Humans are fickle creatures that are even more easily distracted than most demons. 

When I left, I had expected him to move on and forget any such notion. Eventually, he would marry Lady Elizabeth and realize his potential as Earl Phantomhive. I would become little more than a memory to the boy I once called master. I never expected him to have some lingering attachment. Then again, I had not thought that I would still feel as strongly about him as I do. It would seem that I have underestimated both my young master and me.

The brick facade of the overpriced apartment complex John Anderson calls home comes into view. Without wasting time, I make my way inside and head straight for his unit. Even two floors away, the music is loud enough to shake the walls. Classless, and exactly what I would expect from my current master. The elevator comes to a standstill and I make my way into the hall, crossing to his door in an instant. There is no need to knock, as the door is already open by several inches. Inside, the stench of alcohol, illegal substances, and sweat permeates the air. More than fifty people fill the living area, trailing into the kitchen and bar. There is something perversely fascinating about the fact that so many people can fit into such a small space. 

Pushing my way through the crowd, I search the apartment for the man who summoned me. The sound of the music makes it impossible to think and does not inspire me to work harder to learn of what tasks he might have in mind for me to complete. 

And yet, I cannot avoid him forever. I locate him in the primary bedroom, the door to which is also wide open but the lights have been turned off. That is a small blessing. The mattress is bare, any sheets and blankets discarded sloppily to the side. Mr. Anderson lies on top of the bare faux-silk mattress wearing nothing but an unfastened pair of trousers, two mostly naked women draped over him. One is a stranger, but I recognize the second as a cheap prostitute favored by Mr. Anderson. They smell of sex and urine. Disgusting. At least they are breathing. For a moment, I had wondered if he had called me here to dispose of someone he had accidentally killed. This would not be the first time for such a request. His entire lifestyle is filthy and degrading to one such as myself. 

"Mr. Anderson," I say, trying to get his attention. He barely stirs atop the mattress. After several moments have passed, he seems to regain consciousness. He shoves the women off himself as he sits up, snorting indignantly as one of them protests.

He tucks himself into his pants and zips the fly, wiping one hand on the leg of the trousers. "You're late. What the fuck are you wearing?"

"My apologies, master," I tell him disingenuously. "No more than a half hour has passed since I received your call. I felt that the clothing was appropriate. It is also colorful, as per your request."

Mr. Anderson eyes me cautiously. I do not particularly enjoy wearing colorful clothing, which is best reserved for small children and certain exotic birds. However, as he wished, I am wearing a green button-down shirt and khakis. Try though I might, I could not bring myself to wear what he would consider party clothing. As he had not specified what style of clothing to wear, this is more than acceptable. 

Apparently, whatever problems he might have with my manner of dress are not major enough for him to insist on having me change. He runs a hand through what little hair is left on his head. "Fine. Get to work."

"What is it you wish for me to do?" I ask.

"Whatever. Entertain the guests. Keep them happy. Whatever the fuck they want. And I do mean whatever they want." He snorts heavily and then swallows as though he has just discovered something stuck in his throat. "You better not fuck this up."

How eloquent. I offer a short bow. "As you wish."

Turning, I walk back through the bedroom door to make my way into the living room. Behind me, I can hear him lifting himself off the bed. The springs of his mattress groan with relief at no longer having to support his weight.

He shuffles forward, reaching me just as I enter the crowded living area. His thick hand lands on my shoulder, fingers barely able to rest on top due to the difference in our heights. Or perhaps due to his lack of fitness.

"Hey everybody!" His voice is loud, but he still only manages to attract the attention of five or six people standing nearby. That is apparently sufficient. "I've brought you all a party favor."

With that, his hand slides to my back and he shoves me forward. I allow myself to be moved a few steps, to the amusement of the people who heard his announcement. There are a couple of raucous hoots and hollers. I don't need to look to see that Mr. Anderson has already turned to venture back into his personal cavern, something alcoholic in hand. 

The crowd returns to their meaningless gyrations and sporadic conversation that is utterly at odds with the music being blasted from the cheap radio in a corner. For the most part, my "presentation" to the crowd has gone unnoticed, but not entirely. A woman wanders up to me. Thin, to the point of being anorexic, with make-up caked on so thickly that it completely obscures her natural features. Her hair has been dyed so many times that it's heavily damaged and an unnatural orange shade that may or may not have been intentional. These observations make sense when paired with the track marks on her arms and the bruises that are clearly visible on her neck and wrists. Her clothing does little to hide them, or much of anything else. 

She saunters up to me, tossing her hair in a way she must think is attractive. "Hey there, handsome."

"Good evening," I respond, ever courteous. Though, in honesty, there is little need for courtesy here. 

She places a hand on my arm, trying to steady herself as she totters back and forth on her too-high heels. "You're not like John's usual crowd, are you? You're _classy_. Real quality. What're you doing in a place like this?"

She smells strongly of cocaine and vomit. How positively vile. I smile charmingly. "I am here to keep people such as yourself entertained."

"Oh? Is that right?" She moves the hand that was on my arm to my chest, red fingernails scratching likely at the fabric of my shirt. "Well, I could use some entertaining. You up for a little fun? I bet you're packing..."

"Of course," I respond. Taking hold of her arm, I turn and lead her back down the hall towards a spare bedroom.

**~*~**

Even though my apartment is furnished as inexpensively as possible, it happens to have a state-of-the-art shower. I had it installed after the first so-called party I was required to attend at John Anderson's behest. Demon I may be, but the pleasures of a hot shower after being in such a squalid environment are nearly universal. But even after an hour under the hot stream, I still feel like there is filth clinging to my skin.

Those supposed parties are some of the most odious tasks I have ever been given by someone I have contracted with, a feat that would be remarkable if I were not personally involved. Over the centuries, I have corrupted thousands of bodies and souls with my hands and lips. I cannot even count the number. And yet, the things I have been made to do in the name of John Anderson still somehow surpass the majority.

But that is over. Night has passed. Morning is upon us once more, and I have already completed the daily task of providing my current master with his requisite stock tips and pastries. Light creeps through the window of my bathroom as I turn off the shower and step onto my bathmat, enjoying the human ritual of toweling myself dry after the shower. I don't bother dressing in the bathroom. A quick glance towards the wastebasket confirms that I have already disposed of the clothing from the previous night's activities. Leaving the bathroom door open to allow the steam to dissipate, I make my way to the bedroom. 

While I do possess a bed, it is rarely used. When I feel the desire to sleep, I usually only allow myself an hour or two. It isn't as though I actually require rest. It is purely a luxury. Regardless, I still make full use of the room. Toweling off my hair, I glance at the nightstand. The small black cellphone sits on the false cherrywood stand next to the crisp, white business card that my young master gave me yesterday. Such a party as the one last night would never have happened in the service of Ciel Phantomhive.

Unexpectedly, I find myself missing his presence. There is no guarantee that I can offer as to when I will be able to return to his service. However, I do wish to see him. 

I finish drying my hair and take a seat on the bed, picking up the cell phone. Looking at the card, I dial the number and hit the green button to place the call. It rings twice, and then I hear a familiar voice at the other end. "Yes?"

"Young master," I say, "would it be possible for you to see me today?"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Click. The line goes dead. Snapping the phone shut, I set it back down on the nightstand. The phone has been in my possession for nearly a year, since just after John Anderson and I formed our contract. This is the first time I have ever felt that it merited worth. 

Fifteen minutes is an especially brief span of time for those such as myself. When your life spans millennia, moments are nothing. And yet, I find myself spending longer than necessary dressing and making sure my hair is as it should be. The minutes seem to tick by slowly, and then there is a knock at the door. As soon as I pull it open, I find Ciel Phantomhive standing in front of me.

He walks through the door as I gesture him inside. I can feel myself smiling. "Young master."

"Sebastian," he nods in greeting. For a long moment, the two of us stand there regarding one another. Yet again, I am struck by the surreal feeling of seeing him in front of me after so long. 

Unlike yesterday, he isn't keeping his distance from me. Instead, he's standing quite close. I understand it is very rude to stare, but he doesn't seem to mind. He is looking at me every bit as intently as I am studying him. Perhaps he is still suspicious of me. 

For my part, I am fighting the desire to reach up and brush my hand through his hair. Even were I to do so and brush the strands out of the way, I would not be able to see the mark of our contract. His eye patch is firmly in place today. However, I cannot resist the pull to touch him in some way. Bending slightly, I reach down and straighten the collar of his shirt. He takes a breath but shows no other reaction to what I am doing.

After I finish, he asks, "What did you want to see me about?"

"You came all the way out here without even knowing that much?" I find that amusing.

"I just wanted to come," he tells me. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," I tell him. He looks up at me, then walks into the living room and takes a seat. Ever the gracious host, I know I should at least offer refreshments. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes," he says, pausing slightly. "Tea." 

I offer him a short bow and then vanish into the kitchen. My cupboards are not well stocked since I have no use for food or beverages. However, I do keep a supply of loose-leaf tea on hand. There is no real purpose behind it. I suppose that, for a demon, keeping such a thing is incredibly sentimental. Never before have I allowed previous contracts to have any effect on my lifestyle. When I first entered a contract with Ciel Phantomhive and began living in his manor house, I did not bring so much as a single personal belonging with me. And yet, here I find myself keeping such silly things as Fortnum and Mason's tea. 

When the tea is prepared, I return to the living room and present him with the cup and saucer. He has chosen to sit in the chair nearest to the couch today, and so I take the seat nearest to him. He lifts the teacup delicately and takes a sip. I take it that he hasn't been drinking much tea in the past century or so from the way his nose wrinkles slightly at the taste. 

Despite myself, I find myself smiling. "My apologies, young master. I am afraid the quality of tea has declined greatly in the time that has passed."

"No," he tells me, shaking his head. "It's fine."

We sit in companionable silence for a long while. Eventually, curiosity gets the best of me. "Young master, I have a question."

"What is it?"

"I must admit that, after running into you yesterday morning, I became curious as to what had happened after my departure," I tell him. "However, everything I have come to learn tells me that you died in 1892. I was hoping you might be able to provide an explanation."

For a moment, he considers how to respond. "Tanaka was the first one who noticed that I wasn't aging. When he began to suspect something was off, he looked at measurements from my tailors and photographs that had been taken of me. He didn't even tell me until he was sure. He didn't have an explanation, of course, just the problem. It was a month before my sixteenth birthday, and I was the same as I had been when I was thirteen.

"In terms of years, that wasn't much to consider, but even I knew that it wasn't normal. Tanaka wasn't the only one who had noticed. The Queen had mentioned it to me before, though not in those exact terms. Rumors were starting to pop up in the higher echelons of the social circles, especially when I appeared in public with Lizzy. Unlike me, she was growing up quickly. She was a beautiful young woman. Toward the end, I looked even more like a small child when standing next to her.

"The rumors started causing problems for Funtom Company. We lost several business deals because of some story being passed around that I was terminally ill and that the company was about to go under. After we lost a multimillion dollar deal for a new factory in China, it was decided that it might be best if I appeared to die so the company could come under leadership that investors would consider more stable. The plan was that Tanaka would take over Funtom Company, and I would simply wait elsewhere for a more opportune time to return and take the company back."

"All because you weren't aging?" 

"Not just that," he confirms. "There was a string of assassinations taking place just then. Other people who worked for Her Majesty as I did were being killed. Lau was among them. Queen Victoria provided the initial suggestion for both my safety and for the sake of the work that I did for her. We simply made it happen. It was merely coincidence that I fell ill around the same time. The bout of pneumonia provided the perfect cover story.

"After I had recovered, I left England and placed Tanaka in charge of the company just as we had planned. He remained the company president until very shortly before his death in 1904. I returned to England upon hearing of his illness. Even though I was twenty-eight at the time, he seemed unsurprised by my appearance. He told me before he died that he always knew there was something different about me."

"He was a remarkable man," I murmur.

"Yes, he was," he agrees. "After his death, I decided to resume running the company once more."

"I had wondered why the company heads changed so frequently. With any other company, I would have thought the business was unstable."

He raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Is it really that noticeable?"

"Yes," I tell him, "just a bit. There's something of a pattern to it."

He lifts the teacup to his lips once more and takes another sip. "I'm surprised that you didn't notice the other pattern."

"Other pattern?"

He smiles, then. The slightest upturning of rosy lips. "All of the company presidents, and subsequently my own false identities, have been named after people that you and I knew when we were both at the manor house. The current president is Frederick Randall. I do not think that Lord Randal would appreciate that I have combined his name with that of his subordinate, but I don't think Fred Abberline would have minded."

I find myself laughing quietly at that. Even after all this time, it would appear that my young master is still a child in some ways. "That is very unexpected of you."

He looks at me in a way that suggests he knows exactly why I find it amusing, nearly a glare. "It was easier than coming up with something completely new each time."

"Is that all you have been doing in all of this time?" I ask.

"For the most part, yes. I'm here in New York on business for the new office that is being built here. I travel between the major offices and London most of the time. I still do work for the British government, though things have changed a great deal since you were last with me. All governments have their secrets. I am simply one more for Britain to deal with. It's largely thanks to them that I am able to change identities so regularly." He sips his tea and goes silent.

It would seem that my young master has no interest in learning of my whereabouts for the past century. I am rather relieved at that fact. It is not as though I have anything that I wish to hide from him. Rather, it is the fact that I have done nothing of note. Nothing at all, really. The fact that I have only just entered into a new contract is evidence of my self-imposed asylum. 

"I am very glad to see that my young master has done so well in my absence."

Looking at me directly, he asks, "Have you thought about what I said yesterday?"

There is no need to ask for clarification. Somehow, the conversation does not seem as casual now as it was only a few seconds ago. I wonder how I should respond. There are no right answers in this situation. As always, I suppose that honesty is the best policy, as they say.

"Young master, I have regretted my decision to leave since the very first night I made that choice. However..."

He sits up a little straighter in the chair, watching me intently. "However?"

"There are complications."

"What sort of complications?" Confusion is easy to read on his face. I imagine that he has become quite used to dealing with unexpected situations in his lengthy tenure as the many presidents of Funtom Company. I suppose that I am also an unexpected situation.

There is a strange reluctance for me to explain the situation with John Anderson. In all honesty, it would be extremely poor form to mention my other master in front of him. Situations like this do not happen for demons, and it is entirely unprecedented for me. Perhaps showing him would be the best way. I pull my hand to my lips and tug off the left cotton glove that I put on out of habit. The glove comes away easily enough, and I hold the hand up for him to look at.

Almost without seeming to realize it, he sets the teacup and saucer aside on the coffee table. Then, he reaches out and takes hold of my left hand, studying the contract mark on my skin. His fingers are warm on my palm. "It looks... different than I remember," he murmurs. Then, as his eyes trace the lines, I can see the instant realization strikes. His voice is disbelieving as he makes a perfectly accurate guess. "Sebastian, are you in another contract?"

"Yes." My answer is simple and my voice serious.

"I see." In an instant, his face becomes entirely unreadable. He sits back slightly in his chair, letting my hand fall from his fingers. 

"Young master, are you alright?" I ask. Rather than replying, he simply nods. "Would you like another cup of tea?" I can see that his cup is empty. Again, he nods in response as he stares at the wall. I stand and take the cup and saucer from the coffee table in front of him. 

It only takes a moment in the kitchen to prepare him a cup of tea. When I return to the living room, he is on his feet. Without looking at me, he says, "I need to leave." 

"Why do you need to leave, young master?" I set the dishes smoothly down onto the coffee table and turn to him. He will not look at me even as I step closer to him. 

"Sebastian," he says quietly.

"Yes?"

"When you left, why didn't the mark in my eye go away?"

Looking at him now, I feel a very deep sense of regret for leaving his side. Whatever forces drove me to abandon him now push me to do exactly the opposite. I have already made my decision. John Anderson's time will run out shortly. When he is dead, I will return to my true master's side. 

Reaching up, I tug at the thin cords that hold his eye patch in place and let it fall to the floor. Even though he isn't looking at me, I dislike having the seal covered when it isn't necessary. Softly, I tell him the truth. "Young master, even though I left your side and ignored your orders, the agreement between us is eternal. Neither you nor I have the power to destroy what we wrought." 

I hate seeing the look that now covers his features. It is an expression I have only witnessed a few times before. Very soon afterwards, I have killed whatever caused that depth of sadness. This time, there is nothing I can do to destroy the source of his pain. I know that I am the one responsible. For once, I feel ashamed of myself and my actions. While I believed that what I had done was in his best interests, I have only succeeded in harming him further. 

Placing my right hand over my heart, I sink down on one knee. My eyes are fixed on his feet as I address him. "Young master, I have neglected your orders and disregarded our contract for more than a century. This negligence has caused you pain. As your faithful servant, I sincerely regret my behavior. It is unbefitting of one that wishes to be a butler of the Phantomhive household.

"Though much time has passed and though I left your side, you have always been my young master. What can I do to atone for my shameful actions?" 

My eyes do not lift from the ground as he takes two small steps forward. He places both hands on the sides of my face, guiding my gaze up to look at him. His expression is unreadable once more as he looks down at me, the mark of our contract nearly glowing in his eye. Very slowly, he leans down and kisses me.

**Author's Note:**

> Immortal was originally published in 2011 (ish?), back when I still couldn't find my way around a keyboard very well. Since my plans for a YouTube channel are being put on hold temporarily, I thought it might be fun to clean up and rewrite some of my old things. A reader requested Immortal, so let's get this party started!


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